


dark cathedrals spilling midnight on their altars

by caryophyllaceae (xphantomhive)



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Disturbing thoughts, I suppose, M/M, Pedophilia, Psychological Horror, Violent Thoughts, dubcon, the underage warning is there for a reason so beware, there's a fair age gap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-18
Updated: 2017-02-18
Packaged: 2018-09-25 06:06:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,126
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9806525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xphantomhive/pseuds/caryophyllaceae
Summary: His skin is pale like a porcelain doll, but he is so much prettier than one. You want to smash his face to bits with a hammer, want his cute white teeth stained with blood.





	

**Author's Note:**

> guess what: this entire series is a gift to you. every work in it will be gifted to you. you can never beat my kindness, i am sorry. i am the kindness master.
> 
> this entire thing is named after lyrics from the song [the horror of our love](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kQ-0bBkMIY) by ludo, and every part of the series will be named after a lyric.

The first time you meet John Egbert, he’s swinging on the ancient swingset in the park two blocks from your house. You are fourteen. He is eight. You’re walking past him when he stops you in your tracks with a loud, “Hey, mister!” and you turn to face him, one eyebrow raised so he knows you’re listening since you’re wearing shades and he probably can’t tell that you’re looking at him. “Can you push me? My big sister was gonna, but I dunno where she went. Please? My legs aren’t long ‘nough to touch the ground yet!”

You nod slowly, say, “Sure, kid,” and step behind him, giving him a push with all of the strength you can muster, stepping back to watch him gain momentum so you can make sure he doesn’t need another push. He thanks you with a wide smile. He’s missing both of his front teeth and he has a face-full of glasses that are obviously too big for him. They magnify his blue eyes. He still has his baby fat, from what you can see, and he’s pale like he’s never been outside before. It’s all a stark contrast to your lanky, six-foot-two, tan body. You stare at his round, youthful face and feed into the thoughts about him that pop into your head unannounced.

He is beautiful. You want him underneath you, lax and compliant. You want him to do exactly as you say whenever you say it. You want to crack his skull open and watch it bleed. You want to choke him until he has purple finger-shaped bruises on his neck. You want to preserve him in your dead-things collection. You want to kiss him softly and tell him that you would never hurt him in a million years. “Jade!” he yells, suddenly, snapping you back to reality. A girl that is taller and obviously stronger than you lifts the boy from the swing, kisses his head, and glares at you, almost like she can read your mind.

You turn and walk away.

;;

You think up plans upon plans upon plans on how to get closer to the small boy from the park, but none of them are ever good enough, until you think up one that is. The elementary school in the same district as your high school is looking for tutors for the children. He just so happens to need a math tutor; when you offer, they take you up on it, and once you’ve made it to his house his father introduces himself as James Egbert and explains to you math never was his son—John’s—thing. He’s too spacey for it, James tells you, with a soft smile.

You laugh and say, “I love math,” and the conversation does not progress from there because John tugs on your shirt, says quietly, gently, “c’mon, Dave,” and pulls at your hand until you turn from his dad and follow him up the creaky staircase connected to their kitchen. His room is cleaner than yours ever was when you were eight.

“I don’t get any of this stuff,” he tells you, motioning broadly to the scattered papers on his wooden desk, pushed against one of the four blue walls in his room. “Help?”

and he smiles up at you, coyly bats his lashes and you know he has you wrapped around his little finger already—he does, too, you’re sure. You end up doing all of the work for him, but you write it on a separate piece of paper and let him copy it down in his handwriting. He giggles and says, “we’re doin’ something bad!” and you smile carefully, tell him not to tell his dad. He gets serious suddenly and promises you that he would never tattle on you, because you’re his friend.

You want to bash his face in. You want his cute teeth stained with blood. You want to kiss him softly and you want him to tell you that you’re all he needs.

;;

“Dave, have you ever kissed a girl?” He asks you during your third study session, legs swinging back and forth while he sits in a plastic white chair likely taken from the patio attached to the back of his house. “‘Cause a girl in my class kissed me today, but I didn’t like it! Does that make me weird?”

You shake your head. “No, that’s not weird, John,” you say, punching numbers into the calculator that you’ve started bringing with you. You do the work while John asks you questions, and a part of you wants to punch him in the mouth so he stops babbling on and the other part wants to scoop him up in your arms and kiss his face softly, butterfly-wings, so he giggles at you. “I don’t like kissing girls, either. I like kissing boys.”

He makes a face at that. Eyebrows scrunched together, nose crinkled up as he thinks what you’ve said over. After a silent two minutes full of him just thinking, he finally asks you if you want to kiss him. You tell him that you don’t, but he smiles at you, all coy and innocent, and says, “Yeah you do. You have a crush on me!” and you know he doesn’t understand what he’s talking about, but you drop your pencil and turn to face him, pat your lap as an offer. He doesn’t refuse. There is a blush high on his cheeks and he wraps his arms around your neck, asks, “Are you gonna drop me?”

“I promise I won’t,” you say. “Do you want to kiss me?”

His blush worsens, and he shrugs. “Maybe a little. Is that bad?"

“Nah,” you respond. It is bad. A small rational part of your brain reminds you of that, but you ignore the rational part in favor of offering to kiss John—it’ll just be a test, you say. He fidgets nervously in your lap but concedes, leans forward to press his lips to yours, hesitantly. They are as soft and giving as his hips are when you grab them, rubbing up against him. He pulls back with ruffled hair, pink cheeks, and his mouth in a little ‘o’ shape.

“T-That felt good, Dave,” he says. You know this is wrong. Part of you knows that. Part of you doesn’t care. “Can...can we kiss more, maybe?”

You nod carefully, helping him down off of your lap and onto the floor. He’s pale like a porcelain doll and you want to smash him with a hammer, want his face broken to bits and pieces, want blood on his teeth and soaked into his pale skin. You want to kiss him again. Your skin crawls, but you are numb to it.


End file.
